London Rain
by andromeda's song
Summary: John and Sherlock contemplate their mad lives and their mutual love for one another. (Just a short something I threw together to get myself back into the swing of writing again!)


It was roughly two weeks after the wedding before anyone mentioned it.

There were no bells or whistles or loud proclamations shouted from the rooftops or declared publicly in front of thousands of strangers. There were neither uncomfortable silences nor angry curses slung.

There was, however, rain.

It was a light rain for London, a sort of nonchalant rain that fell as if only to remind us that our indoor plants needed watering and our wash taken in off the line. The Londoners bustled to and fro under the rain in their sort of accepting London way when it comes to the rain, their minds filled instead with thoughts of lunch and football matches and the skyrocketing produce prices.

A single tourist from Portugal stood at the street corner and smiled at the rain.

The single occupant of 221B Baker Street paid little heed to the rain. The tall man with dark hair and a brooding countenance was much too involved with his latest compositions to bother with the rain. Long fingers swept over the delicate gut strings on his violin, pausing only to mark down the notes on a scrap sheet of staff paper on the stand to his right.

There were memories in the music, remnants of a waltz that Sherlock Holmes had composed only weeks ago for his best friend upon the occasion of his marriage. Hints of the melody appeared for a moment, only to be swept away in the tides of new music again. The detective was unable to stop the small smile that crept up his face as he reminisced.

There'd been an almost-murder and a mystery that needed to be solved at John's wedding. It couldn't have been any more perfect, Sherlock thought.

And damned if the Sydney Opera House napkins didn't look incredible.

Sherlock's inner dialogue was momentarily interrupted by the sound of a familiar footfall on the stair outside the door. Sherlock bit on another smile and picked up his violin to resume his playing.

John was home.

John let himself into his old quarters and upon recognising Sherlock's immersion in his composition, seated himself in his chair and took up the newspapers as quietly as possible. Having lived with Sherlock for so long, John knew that composition was often a way for Sherlock to sort out all the fuss in his head. His creativity as an artist often soothed the savageness of his intellect. He could be at it for hours at a time.

"Long day at the clinic then, Dr Watson?"

Or not. John flicked the top of his newspaper down and met the eyes of his former flatmate.

"How in the hell did you know…"

"John," Sherlock interrupted. "Do I really need to answer that for you? You know my methods. Apply them."

John sighed loudly as he folded the paper and leaned over in his chair, staring Sherlock down as he did so. Sherlock merely placed his violin in its stand and folded his arms, raising an eyebrow in challenge.

John raised a finger. "Well, I suppose you noticed that my coat isn't that wet, which would mean I took a cab to get here. My shoes are also relatively dry."

Sherlock pushed his head forward a little as if to say, 'Go on'.

John tried to subtly examine his person for other clues. "Umm… do I smell like disinfectant?"

"Minutely," Sherlock said. "But there are much more obvious signs."

"I give up, Sherlock," John said. "I don't want to play anymore. I can feel you just itching to get it all out, so let's have it."

Sherlock smiled and exhaled. "There's a slight trace of latex powder and some slight chafing on the curve of your hand just there from where your gloves have been rubbing all day. When you sat down, you rotated your feet several times, indicating that even though you took a cab here, your feet are tired and needed to be stretched. It could also mean that your orthopaedic inserts are starting to bother you. You were also massaging your ears but not the lobes or the outer shell, just the central part where the stems of your stethoscope have been."

"Bloody incredible," John muttered. "Every time…"

Sherlock removed his phone from his pocket. "Also, Mary texted me to say that you'd most likely be stopping off after work because Helena would be coming over for tea later and you don't like Helena."

The look on John's face made Sherlock grin.

"Okay, so I don't like Helena," John said. "So I thought I'd drop in, say hello. Got any new cases, then?"

"I would have texted if I had," Sherlock said.

"Of course."

"Dinner?" Sherlock offered.

"Angelo's?" John asked.

"Takeaway," Sherlock countered. "The rain…"

An hour later found the doctor and the detective sated with their share of London's summation of Indian food. The two were sitting in their respective armchairs with cups of tea and a contemplative silence while the crackling of a small fire drove away the chill of the evening rain.

"You said you loved me," John said.

The clink of a teacup in a saucer was the only reply for a long moment. Sherlock blinked several times in that moment. It was not often that he needed a moment to compose himself. Sherlock was a startlingly direct person, often to the point of rudeness. But when John Watson decided he wasn't going to beat around the bush…

"I suppose I did," Sherlock answered smoothly.

Another long moment passed. The rain continued to patter on the rooftops and blended with the crackle of the fire and the faraway sounds of London, enveloping them in a symphony of sound and silence.

"Is there a problem with that?" Sherlock asked at long last. "For I believe it was you that said you loved me first."

_Look Sherlock, this is the biggest and most important day of my life._

_**Well…**_

_No, it is. It is. And I want to be up there with the two people that I love and care about most in the world._

_**Yes.**_

_Mary Morstan._

_**Yes. **_

_And… you. _

John smiled. "You're a complete dick-head, Sherlock Holmes. You pretended that you couldn't diffuse a bomb to get me to forgive you for jumping off a building to your death, which was also actually faked. You made me think you'd drugged my sugar and I hallucinated a giant hellhound. Since I've known you, I've been beaten, kidnapped, shot at, drugged, and dragged into the world of the criminal underground."

"Well when you put it that way," Sherlock started.

"Shut up. The point is, you're completely mad. But you're my best friend. You, Sherlock Holmes, are my best friend. Of course I love you."

_John, you have endured war and injury and tragic loss - so sorry again about that last one - so know this; today you sit between the woman you have made your wife and the man you have saved. In short, the two people who love you most in all this world. And I know I speak for Mary as well when I say we will never let you down and we have a lifetime ahead to prove that. _

"You truly are the bravest and kindest person I have ever met, John," Sherlock said. "And you are my… my best friend. I do love you."

John raised his teacup in a mock salute. "Here's to that lifetime ahead of us then, eh? A lifetime of madness and danger and family and love."

Sherlock raised his teacup to match John's. "To our lifetime," he echoed.

The rain had already stopped.

* * *

**It has been entirely too long since I've posted anything. I just... things have been happening in my life-some good and some not so good. I missed this forum so much... I missed writing and reading and sharing this insane thing with people around the world. I have unfinished business here... but I threw this together just to get my head starting to work again. :) **

**Did you miss me? **

**I've missed you. :)**


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